Candles
by babybluecas
Summary: Eight years ago Cas raised Dean from hell, Dean wants to thank him for that and for much, much more.


"Just a second," Dean says, slipping his palm off the small of Cas's back.

He doesn't miss the twitch of Cas's lips at the metallic sound of the lighter flickering a flame. But the angel doesn't move an inch, his legs still firm on the spot where Dean left him, his arms still dropped to his sides, instead of rising to his face to rip off the band that's wrapped over his eyes. There is a chance, of course, that Cas almighty might be just looking through the black fabric, but he promised not to, so Dean will go with that. Besides, it doesn't even matter at this point.

"Okay, you can take it off," Dean announces, spreading his arms wide.

Instead of struggling with the knot at the back of his head, Cas magics the band off, so that one second it covers his eyes, the next it's hanging off his fist. His eyes go straight to the wide grin on Dean's face, then slide to his outstretched arms, before dropping to the short table standing between them. It's empty, mostly, as in there is no feast on it, no pie, or wine, or spaghetti to slurp in together, Lady and the Tramp style. There are just—

"Candles?" Cas double-takes, before squinting at Dean. "Are we preparing a ritual?" He moves closer, eyes swooping the nearest surroundings for bowls and herbs but finding none. "Do you need me to acquire some rare ingredients?"

"What?" It takes Dean a second to get what he's coming at, and when he does he has to physically hold his hand back from slapping his own, dumb face. Of course, this was a stupid idea from the start. "No, no, we're not preparing a ritual, Cas," he explains, ransacking his brain for an acceptable save, which is not that easy under Cas's confused yet intent stare. "We're preparing—" he pauses for effect, waves his palms, all showmanship, for emphasis— "the atmosphere."

Very smooth, Dean "jazzhands" Winchester. And Cas just keeps squinting, as Cas tends to do.

"By filling it with wax and smoke?"

Dean gives out a defeated sigh. It all would be so much easier if his best buddy slash baby wasn't a fucking angel. But hey, nobody's perfect.

"I ain't gotten many occasions for romantic gestures in, well, ever. Alright? Cut me some slack."

"Oh." Cas's lips part as his eyes flicker to the candles and back to Dean. "Of course, candles do serve as a symbol of love, life, and celebration." He smiles softly and Dean can't help but reciprocate. As Dean maneuvers between the table and the couch, Cas's smile widens, turns lopsided, a dirty, little thing. "And the pupils' dilation in the result of dim light mimics their response to arousal."

Dean stops in his tracks, a foot away from Cas, gaze fixed on the deep shadows on his face dancing with the tongues of orange on his cheeks, accented red of his lips. "Candlelight makes you look horny?" he makes sure. "Is that why you look so hot right now?"

He waggles his eyebrow at Cas until a huff of laugh comes out of his mouth in the place of an "I'm an angel, my pupils don't dilate" speech.

"So, what are we preparing the romantic atmosphere for?" Cas asks, instead, his voice low and quiet. It might be Dean's ears playing tricks on him, but he senses a hint of tease in it.

"Well," he begins and clears his throat.

This part is beginning to feel a little awkward. Dean might have outdone it with the packaging for the big pile of nothing inside it. It's like those birthday gifts when the giver is trying to be funny and gets one's hopes up with a gigantic box filled with styrofoam and a much much tinier box that takes a lot of digging to find.

Dean, at least, has decency to point to the thing. He waves to the piles of pillows and blankets spread on the couch, wordlessly. Eight years. Eight years since Cas pulled him out of hell and this is what Dean's giving him: a bubkis wrapped in volatile wax and metaphorical styrofoam. And romanticism, because, yeah, the biblical bedsharing part a.k.a. the boyfriends part.

A.k.a. the I love you part.

But that's only been a few months, only since Dean didn't die saving the world this time. There's hardly a lot to celebrate. Eight years sounds better. More fitting. Just a shame they wasted all of those.

But no point in remorse. Not now, when Cas is squinting again, more on the side of curiosity than confusion this time. Or amusement maybe.

"For our anniversary, you're telling me I'll be sleeping on the couch?" he guesses, crossing his arms, corners of his lips curl up.

Dean rolls his eyes. Does he really have to spell it out for him? As if it isn't hard enough already, he'd rather just get to it than have to say the actual word. C-U-D— He swallows hard.

"Cuddle, okay?" he blurts out, trying to ignore the blush creeping up his cheeks. "I want us to cuddle and watch some Netflix and maybe grab a drink." Maybe if he covers it with a bunch of manlier stuff it won't sound so bad. "And don't you dare tell Sam. Or anyone." He raises his finger to emphasize the threat. "Or I will never give you a foot rub again."

Cas nods. "I would never risk not getting a foot rub from you," he says with utter seriousness. "Cuddling sounds good."

Cas takes his shitty so-called gift with such gratitude, it only makes Dean feel worse about it. But he tried, he really tried. For the last week, he barely slept trying to think of something that would get close to good enough. Something that would say: thank you for everything. Thank you for eight years and for still being here despite everything. Thank you for fighting and giving up everything you've ever known. Thank you for coming back, always coming back, even if I didn't give you a reason to. And for sticking with me.

But in the end, all he's giving him is a cuddling session, like Dean is some fucking grand prize.

"Listen," Dean starts, crossing the distance between them. He reaches to Cas's arms, untangles them. "I'm not really good at this whole celebrating thing. And you're a hard guy to buy— or just do- anything for. I mean, you don't eat, you don't really use stuff and anywhere I could take you? I'm sure you've already been there. Besides—" he slips his palms under the lapels of Cas's jacket, takes it off his shoulders together with the coat— "with all that's been going on, I just thought shacking up and relaxing for a day would be nice."

Cas finishes taking the layers off himself. He drops the coat and the jacket on the armchair.

"I think that's a perfect idea, Dean," Cas murmurs, his hand cupping Dean's chin, pulling his face close to place a kiss on his lips. "Thank you."

"Thank you," Dean confesses against his lips. His fingers slip into Cas's hair as he deepens the kiss. "I love you."

Cas pulls away. "I love you too," he says, staring into Dean's eyes and his soul in that way of his. It might be a play of light, but his pupils seem wide, huge like two black pools inside the rings of the night sky. "So, about that cuddling—"

They race to the couch, they drape the blankets and pillows around themselves. Cas pulls his feet up, knees to his chin. He curls himself under Dean's arm. It's so weird to have Cas the angel be so small and so fitting there. And so right.

"Happy Anniversary, Dean," Cas says, locking his fingers with Dean's.

Dean presses a kiss to Cas's temple. "Happy Anniversary."


End file.
